It’s Monday, 6 a.m. and Sarah, 30, wakes up — as she does five days a week (but really, it’s seven, because the body is a fickle thing). She has an hour-long commute, and if she hopes to shower, walk to the train station, ride into the city, walk to work, and get in on time, this is just what she has to do.
In the beginning, this was shocking for her friends. 6 a.m. was an “ungodly hour,” an hour to which they’d answer “nope. I couldn’t do it.” An elusive hour that was a stranger — no, an affront to humanity. But as the years went on, she just became “crazy” to a certain segment of her friends — the ones that would continue inviting her out (thank you?) despite her not being able to drink until midnight. Because she had a job. These were the friends that would say things like, “When are you gonna find a different job? Can’t you just freelance?”
It’s all innocent enough, but the reality is that Sarah has to work full-time. She has only one living parent — and this parent earns only enough to pay rent each month. This was never a let’s go to Disney parent. This was a we don’t have cable so I can pay for the car parent, she tells me.